Shooting Stars and Satellites
by darshh
Summary: Wishing on the wrong one will get you nowhere.


I had just finished puking for the third time that night when he came. His arms, too weak to do more than 15 push-ups in P.E. but somehow strong enough for this purpose, wrapped around my waist and hauled me up off Clyde's bathroom floor. He maneuvered me until I was standing in front of the sink, then turned the water on and splashed some on my face. I don't know why he always insisted on doing that, it never helped anything, only pissed me off.

Well, maybe that was the point.

"Rinse your mouth out," he commanded. He didn't sound angry or sad, or even disappointed. His tone was still firm, though, and I obeyed.

He helped me walk downstairs, weaving me through the other party guests who were still sober enough to stand. I slurred alternating insults and confessions of undying love at him. I didn't mean any of it.

His car looked like some kind of impossible puzzle. I informed him of this at least three times louder than I needed to. But instead of snapping at me to shut the fuck up, he carefully helped me in and buckled my seat belt for me. I told him I loved him some more, and kind of meant it this time.

Whenever he picked me up from parties, Kyle would drive around town for an hour or two before taking me home. By the time he pulled up my driveway I would either be asleep, or sober enough to know to be quiet as he helped me up to my room. I guess I appreciated it. It was better than waking my parents up.

Tonight, I sobered up. After an hour of staring dizzily out at the road, watching the scenery fly by and trying not to vomit again, I rolled the window down. The scent of pine hit me hard—Kyle had decided to drive through the woods on the edge of town. This particular road wasn't very well lit, and I couldn't see farther than a couple yards into the forest.

"I'm hungry," I told him, my voice raspy and tired, as I kicked my feet up on the dash.

He didn't say anything, just drove back towards town and through the 24-hour McDonald's drive-thru. Usually I could only get him to buy me something off the dollar menu, but tonight I guess he was feeling generous, because my request for "a double quarter pounder and large fries and a big fuckin' chocolate shake" was repeated verbatim to the disinterested employee taking our order.

"God I fucking love you so much," I muttered as he plopped the warm bag down in my lap.

"Hmm," he replied. He pulled into a space in the nearly empty parking lot, making sure he was parked perfectly straight even though there was only one other car, five spaces away. I watched as he got out and went to sit on the hood of his rusty 1992 Ford Laser hatchback. Walking still seemed like a dangerous task, but I managed to follow him without incident.

The burger was gone in less than three minutes. The fries that Kyle didn't steal for himself were dunked in the shake, something I knew he found disgusting. I was too groggy to really give a shit, though. Halfway through the fries I got sick of them and shoved the box into his lap. I leaned back against the windshield, still sucking down the shake, and gazed up at the stars.

A light drifting lazily across the sky caught my attention. I slapped Kyle's thigh excitedly and pointed. "It's a shooting star, look!"

He laughed. "That's a satellite, Stan."

I wished on it anyway.

He took the long way back to my house. The classic rock radio station played quietly in the background, providing a soundtrack for our thoughts, which we kept to ourselves. He let me lean on him as we tiptoed up to my room, even though we both knew I didn't need it by now, and he pretended not to look as I shed my clothes and stepped into pajama pants. I didn't bother pretending when he did the same.

"I love you," I told him as he was leaning over me in bed, setting the alarm on his phone before putting it down on the nightstand.

That was the one he'd been waiting for. The (mostly) sober and sincere one, the one that wasn't just spewed out because he was giving me something I wanted. He smiled, and then he bent down to kiss me.

"I love you too," he whispered, his lips barely brushing against mine. It tickled, and I pushed him away to rub my lips vigorously with the back of my hand. He laughed. "Goodnight, Stan."

In the morning I would wake up disoriented and sick, and probably break free of his embrace in favor of stumbling to the bathroom to puke some more. He would come in and rub my back and force me to eat breakfast, using his Mom Voice to scold me for doing this to myself.

We wouldn't mention the kiss or the "I love yous" or any of that. We never did. And maybe that was okay, as much as it hurt. Maybe we just needed more time to sort things out. It wouldn't be wise to be together yet; not while we still lived in South Park.

Wishing on satellites hadn't gotten me anything yet. But until the day I caught sight of a real shooting star, I was going to keep trying.

* * *

**A/N:** Now go listen to Passenger Seat by Death Cab For Cutie, because that's what made me write this.


End file.
